I've Got a Date with Sam!
by hs42
Summary: What Freddie Benson used to think was the stuff of nightmares is about to come true. He and Sam are going out on their first date together. Chaos, hilarity, and a slog through Seattle's seedy underbelly ensue. Set a few days after iOMG. Seddie.
1. Totally Sideways

To say Freddie Benson's universe had suddenly gone totally sideways would be something of an understatement. There were few certainties in life, but one thing that always held constant for him was that no matter what, Sam Puckett hated him and would always go out of her way to fill his life with random moments of stunningly creative misery. Sure, they were strangely somehow very good friends despite that fact; it was as though their friendship flourished in the medium of mutual mockery and torment the way fish live in water. It was what they did; it was the game they played, and it was comfortable for them. It takes a lot of effort to constantly find new and increasingly convoluted ways to show someone you don't care about them, so demonstrations of how little they cared about each other showed each of them, in some twisted way, how much they cared about each other. But only as friends.

Or so Freddie thought. The notion that the person who always went out of her way to tell him, "I hate you," and who even went so far as to recently sign his birthday card with, "Happy birthday. I hate you. Hate, Sam," would actually be falling for him at the same time was just unthinkable.

The formerly unthinkable suddenly became real a few nights ago at Ridgeway High School's semester project lock-in, when Freddie and Brad's Mood-Face app project revealed that Sam was in love. Freddie and Carly assumed that this must have meant that Sam had a crush on the new guy at school and the new iCarly intern, Brad. Sam had been acting strangely for a while before that night, as she not only insisted on helping Freddie and Brad with developing their computer application project, but she also kept tagging along with them whenever and wherever they hung out together. Plus, she was generally pleasant to be around, which for her was incredibly strange, especially from Freddie's experience.

It was around three in the morning during the lock-in when Freddie found Sam alone and decided to give her a bit of a pep talk to convince her to drum up the courage to ask out Brad. Sam was someone who was usually never lacking for courage, but Freddie and Carly always knew that some of her bravado was a false front for a lack of confidence – especially when it came to relationships.

Their conversation quickly took a weird turn when Sam insisted she never told Freddie she hated him. Freddie figured she was just trying to change the subject and go back to hiding her feelings about Brad. So, after mentioning several times when she said she hated him, Freddie tried to turn the subject back to Brad and how, while he knew that she was scared to let her feelings show, she had to take a risk on letting someone she liked know how she felt because she'd never know whether that person felt the same way if she didn't. Freddie never got the chance to finish, as Sam suddenly grabbed him in mid-sentence and kissed him passionately.

It turned out she didn't have a crush on Brad after all; it was Freddie who was the object of her affection all along. She had fallen – hard – for "the doof," "Fredlumps," "Fredwad," "Fredwiener," and a whole host of other insults by which she called him. To say it was a shock to him was the understatement of the century. As Sam pulled him close, put her lips to his, and held him tightly, Freddie's mind simply seized up. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't process. None of this made sense to him.

After what seemed like a surprisingly pleasant eternity, Sam pulled away. What Freddie saw then stunned him even more, but caused things to slowly begin to make sense. Sam the demon, Sam the cavalier, Sam the unflappable, Sam the poker-faced, was in fact Sam the absolutely terrified. It was as though every time he'd seen her through the years up until this instant he was actually looking at a series of masks. This time the masks had all fallen away, and he saw her for the first time.

He always knew that Sam had feelings other than "I'm hungry," but she always went out of her way to make sure that didn't seem to be the case. Nothing had prepared Freddie for this. She looked horrified – horrified that she'd slipped and let her feelings show, horrified that he might not reciprocate, horrified that she might have just ruined their friendship forever, horrified that she'd left her comfort zone and couldn't get back to it, horrified that she was showing that she was horrified and therefore vulnerable and, well, human. What he still couldn't fathom was how long she must have been covering up her feelings; judging by the intensity of her kiss and her immediate reaction afterward, he sensed that it must have been a very long and agonizing time.

He would never see her the same way again. Before a couple of nights ago, the notion of going on a date with Sam Puckett would have been the stuff of nightmares for Freddie if he hadn't found it so ludicrous and impossible to begin with. And yet, here he was, about to cross the hall to Carly and Spencer's apartment, where he'd meet Sam for their first date together. He had no idea how this would turn out. Heck, he didn't even know what they'd be doing or where they'd be going. All he knew was that Sam was planning it as a surprise, and that she swore it would be a "fun time. No pressure, no chiz," she insisted. "It'll be somewhere we'll both like, so we can both just hang out and see how it goes."

All Freddie did know is that he was willing to give this shot in the dark a shot. Sam was, after all, his friend, and a very good one at that. Maybe his best friend, in her own uniquely bizarre manner. And once the notion of impossibility surrounding romantic involvement was torn away, it didn't seem like a terrible idea. Trusting Sam to come up with the night's itinerary and not reveal it to him until they were on their way, however, didn't seem like one of the greatest of ideas in history now that he thought about it. Still, if they were going to take a stab at evolving their friendship into a relationship, he'd have to trust her more. He then chuckled to himself as he realized he forgot whether taking a stab required a shank or a shiv. Reminding himself to ask Sam about that again, Freddie Benson took a deep breath, stepped out into the hallway, and into apartment 8-C.


	2. Another Cosmic Joke

Sam Puckett felt like a terrible load had been lifted off her shoulders. Sure, it was scary as hell right before, during and right after letting Freddie know how she really felt about him, but now that it was out of the way she felt freer and somehow happier than she did in a long time. Pining over the dork had been eatin' away at her for way too long.

Sam chuckled to herself as she got on the elevator at Bushwell Plaza's ground floor. Pining, she thought, over Fredward. Fredward! Even after all this time, it still seemed weirdly hysterical to her every once in a while. Just another cosmic joke in this crazy, random universe that unfolds however it wants and at anybody's expense. If you try to stand in its way, Sam found, it'll smack your ass down in a heartbeat 'cause the universe is a lot bigger than you are. Best to just go with the flow and "practice non-ado" or whatever it is the eggheads call it. The fish doesn't swim so much as it's swum and all that chiz. Be like water and adapt. Bruce Lee knew what he was talking about, that's for sure. Or at least he did 'till he croaked.

Still, it took her a long time to adapt. Since they were kids, something about Fredlumps always stuck in her craw, and for years she couldn't put her finger on it. All she knew is that for some weird reason he was always on her mind, usually annoying the hell out of her by simply existing. Why that was, she couldn't say. All she knew was that if he tormented her by just being, she was totally justified in tormenting him back. And as good at making Freddie's life miserable as she was, Sam knew she still had nothing on him, since he somehow didn't even have to do anything to produce the same effect in her. And it was like he didn't even notice that he did it, which just made it worse.

Back in eighth grade, when she, Carly and Fredweird started up the iCarly web show, they wound up having to spend a lot more time together. All at once, things got better and worse. The more they hung out, the more chances they had to irritate each other, but they also got to know each other a lot better. They started becoming friends, then close friends, and then their personalities even started rubbing off on each other a little bit, instead of just against each other like they used to. But the nerd still irritated the living daylights out of her, and now he was always around.

She still wasn't totally sure when her view of Freddie started to change. Maybe something about Freddie made something smolder in her way back in junior high. Maybe something always smoldered in some twisted way. It took a long time to go from a smolder to a burn, though. But once it did, whoa Nelly. By the time tenth grade rolled around, Sam knew she was in deep smit. And he still didn't seem to notice.

At least by the end of tenth grade he finally seemed to have gotten over his sickening puppy-dog crush on Carly that he'd clung to for years. But even that was a mixed bag, because now, instead of having to endure the torture of seeing him fawn over Carly, Sam had to watch as a seemingly endless parade of girls practically threw themselves at the increasingly buff geek – including her own frickin' goody-two-shoes sister. All the while, he only ever saw Sam as a friend/enemy/dude/who-knows-what. Never as a "she, as in girl," as she once had to remind him, and wanted to scream at him practically every day.

For years, it felt like the only way she could make the dork notice her was if she went out of her way to torment him. But that never really worked, because while it made him notice Sam, it never made him notice Sam _that way_: the good way. But she was afraid to try anything else, because doing so would give away just how vulnerable in general and especially vulnerable to him she actually was. So, she kept up her aggressive facade. Finally, a couple of nights ago, in a rare weak moment spurred by sheer frustration, she gave up. Turns out that made Freddie notice.

That is how she found herself riding the Bushwell elevator tonight to meet Freddie at the Shays' place for their first official date. She had a plan, but truth be told she was terrified that she'd hopelessly muck the whole thing up. As the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors began to part, Sam Puckett took a deep breath, stepped out of the elevator and into apartment 8-C.


	3. Napalm Soufflé

_**Author's Note:**_ _I don't own the characters or anything. I forgot that little bit of legalese in the first two chapters. I also apologize for two chapters and 2,000 words of exposition before even getting into the darn story. I'll keep adding a chapter here and there over the next few weeks until this thing's finished, probably at a much slower rate than the last couple of days. Hopefully I'm not biting off more than I can chew. Patience, grasshopper._

The scene in the Shays' apartment was one of devastation. Bits of particolored goo clung to the kitchen table, the chairs, the counter, and even the ceiling and lighting fixtures in the kitchen. In the living room, the couch and coffee table were covered in a random assortment of cooking implements and construction equipment. A jackhammer was even propped in the corner behind the television, and in the middle of the kitchen stood a rusty, gray 55-gallon drum emblazoned with a bright yellow haz-mat logo.

The apartment's front door and elevator opened simultaneously, and Sam and Freddie nervously stepped inside. They quickly forgot the reason for their nervousness once they saw the appalling state of 8-C's main floor.

"Holy crap, whatdya think happened in here?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. I heard a bunch of banging noises from across the hall this afternoon, but that's normal when Spencer's working on something," said Freddie. "Where are they?"

"Carls! Spencer! Where are you?" Sam bellowed worriedly.

A toilet flushed at the end of the hallway, and Spencer emerged, covered in goop, from behind the antique card catalog.

"Oh, hey guys," Spencer said, oblivious to the strangeness of his and his dwelling's appearance. "Lookin' good, you two. Ready to have fun tonight?"

"Umm . . ." Freddie began, "What's . . . uh . . ."

". . . going on in here?" Sam finished.

"Oh. I'm trying to make a sculpture of a soufflé," Spencer replied proudly. "Turns out it's a little trickier to make than an actual soufflé."

"So, what's all this?" Freddie asked, pointing to the haz-mat drum and the goo covering every square inch of the kitchen.

"Oh, that's just the filling," Spencer answered evasively, shifting his eyes from side to side.

"Which is?" Sam wondered.

"Well, uh, I had to figure out what substance would have the right consistency to look realistic under gallery lighting, and, uh . . . funny thing . . . it turns out the best thing is, uh . . . napalm with food coloring." He muttered the last few words quickly.

"So what's the jackhammer for?" Freddie asked.

"Well, uh, how else are you going to stir a 55-gallon drum full of ingredients for making, um, napalm?"

"Heh." Sam nervously expelled some air in a half-chuckle as she scratched her chin. "Where's Carly?"

"Oh," Spencer said, seemingly relieved about the change in subject. "She said she was going up to her room to cower in fear until you guys got here. She should still be up there now," he said pleasantly. He strolled over to the corner and hoisted the jackhammer in trembling hands.

Sam and Freddie trundled up the stairway. "And all this time I thought it was my family that was dangerous," Sam muttered, shaking her head.

"I can't tell you how many times I've expected this whole building to burn down over the last five years," Freddie said as a motor revved below them.

Wearing an army surplus helmet on her head, Carly sat in a fetal position with her arms wrapped around her legs in a corner of her room, rocking. She quickly sprang to her feet with a huge grin on her face, though, as soon as she saw her friends enter, and she ran to the doorway, giving each of them a big hug.

"Easy there, Carls," Sam said, as she was thrown off-balance by the force of her friend's embrace.

"Aww, you guys are so adorable!"

"You're kidding, right?" Freddie asked.

"It's just us, Carly. We're just heading out for the evening, like we always do. The only difference is we don't have anybody else tagging along with us. Nothing's changed," Sam said, as she unconsciously reached her right arm around Freddie's waist and held his side to her. "Um, the only thing I've ever seen grin like that is a Cheshire cat, and aren't they supposed to disappear when they do it?"

"Sorry, it's just that you look so coupley right now."

Sam quickly dropped her arm from Freddie's waist.

"So," Carly continued, turning her glance to Freddie, "Do you know where she's taking you yet?"

"No clue," Freddie said, "Do you know?"

"Yeah, you're –" Carly abruptly stopped as Sam frantically waved her off. "Going to find out eventually," she resumed. "I'll follow you guys out of the building so I can head over to the Groovie Smoothie. It's probably safer there."

"So what inspired Spencer to make a soufflé sculpture with napalm?" Freddie asked.

Carly unstrapped the helmet, and the three headed for the elevator doors on the apartment's second floor. "I don't know," she said. "He wanted to make the soufflé for an exhibit of food sculptures at the Dixon Gallery, but none of the fillings looked right to him. So we went around to just about every hardware store in town buying as much of the ingredients as we could at each place without looking too suspicious." She shook her head. "We're probably on every terrorism watchlist from Tijuana to Vancouver by now. I tried to tell him mixing everything with a jackhammer was a bad idea, but he insisted it was the only way to 'get in the spirit of things.'"

The elevator doors opened, and they walked in.


	4. Our Redolent Chariot Awaits

Once safely in the elevator, Freddie had a thought. "You know, this whole napalm mixing in your home thing might be Spencer's strange way of getting back at you."

"For what?" Carly asked.

"Dude!" Sam replied. "You locked him in a box all night and electrocuted him while blindfolded._ I _wouldn't have even thought of that."

"Shocking, right?" Freddie volunteered. Sam groaned at the bad attempt at a joke.

The doors opened, revealing the lobby as Carly defended herself. "Well, it was the easiest way to get an A on the semester project. Spencer used to be in Mr. Heisenberg's class, too, and he never could stand my brother back then. As soon as I ran the idea of putting Spencer in a sensory chamber past him, he loved it. He even suggested some of the stuff Gibby and I did the other night."

"Something about Mr. Heisenberg creeps me out a little bit. You can never quite tell where he stands," Freddie joked.

"Wow, that was lame. Explain to me why I'm on a date with you?" Sam demanded.

"I don't know; you tell me since whatever we're doing tonight was your idea," Freddie shot back.

"Oh, yeah. I forgot nothing turns a girl on more than a constant stream of obscure Galaxy Wars references," Sam retorted while picking up a chunk of scrapple from the plate sitting unguarded in front of a snoring Lewbert.

"The force is strong with this one."

Sam let the scrapple fall to the floor, grabbed Freddie's jacket by the lapels and reeled him in. "Ooooh, Fredly, talk Horclop to me!"

"What creeps me out a little bit is how I can't quite tell whether or not you're joking right now, Sam," Carly interjected while fervently wishing she and Sam hadn't rented _A Fish Called Wanda_ last week.

"_Dios mio_, now there's grease on my jacket!" Freddie clutched at his coat. "And what kind of mystery meat was that, anyway?" he said as he tried to wipe the stubborn coat grease from his hands.

"Trust me when I say you don't wanna know. Besides, where we're headed it won't matter if there's a little grease on your jacket," Sam replied while pawing more of Freddie's coat. "Oh, and Carly," she continued while grinning wickedly, "'_Sono italiano in spirito_' – it's really too bad you don't speak Russian, Fredward."

Freddie, meanwhile, looked hopelessly confused.

"God, I wish we hadn't seen that movie," Carly grimaced while staring at the ceiling. "Anyway, I've gotta go see a man about some pulverized fruit, get my mind off the frighteningly flammable and sticky weaponized chemicals in my home, and maybe see if I can't find some industrial strength brain bleach while I'm at it."

She smiled at the couple. "You kids have fun." The smile turned to a mock glare. "But not too much fun!"

"Yes, mother," Sam said as she rolled her eyes and Carly turned down the street toward the Groovie Smoothie. "_Spokojnoj Nochi_!" Sam shouted gleefully after her, and Carly's walk broke into a run.

"So where are we headed?" asked Freddie as the pair went the opposite direction from their friend.

"Bus stop," Sam replied.

"And then what?"

"Get onto the bus."

"That's gonna?"

"That's gonna take you back to Beelzebub!" Sam snapped playfully. "Jeez, Freddie, can't you see I'm tryin' to be all mysterious and alluring and crud here?"

"Honestly, you don't have to try to be alluring. But you're definitely working overtime on mysterious."

"When did you get so smooth? Back in the day, I would've punched you for that."

Before Freddie could come up with an equally smooth retort, the bus pulled up in narratively convenient fashion. "Our redolent chariot awaits," Sam beckoned with a wink, and she held out a hand to Freddie as she stepped on first. He took her hand in his and boarded the bus.

_**Disclaimer: **I don't own iCarly, nor do I own any of the characters. I also don't own the rights to A Fish Called Wanda, nor do I own the rights to the aural brilliance of Soul Coughing. I don't even own a bumper sticker that says "Heisenberg may have slept here." In short, I own neither jack nor squat. Tally ho!_


	5. The Tin Man

Finding a spot on the bus proved surprisingly difficult. Eventually, Sam and Freddie found that the only open contiguous seats were directly behind a creepy looking kid wearing an aviator hat and goggles. They sat down, with Sam taking the window seat and Freddie sitting along the aisle. Sam held her hands between her legs, and the two nervously exchanged glances with each other, the floor, the window, the aisle and creep in the goggles seated ahead of them.

After a couple of minutes of this, Freddie noticed Sam again furtively glance at him. This time, though, she made a wide-eyed face with her eyebrows raised for a split second before looking down again at the floor. Reading Sam's gestures was never an easy thing, but he knew by now that this meant there was something she wanted to say but was either afraid to do it or unsure of how to say it.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Freddie asked.

"Nothing . . . It's just that I . . . Never mind. It's nothing."

"Sure?"

"Yeah." Sam's certainty was unconvincing.

"You're worried," Freddie ventured.

"What? No. No way." she said while shaking her head emphatically.

"It's okay."

"Just . . . don't worry about it."

"Look, Sam. You're, like, my best friend. And the last thing in the world I ever want to be is that jerk who breaks your heart. I'm worried, too."

Sam exhaled. "And that's why you're . . . never mind." She looked out the window.

This was one of the few times in their friendship up to this point when reading Sam's emotions instantly clicked for Freddie. "There's no way I'd be here right now if I didn't really believe there was something there." he said. "I'm not doing this out of any sense of obligation. I'm here because I want to be here. With _you_. Wherever the heck it is we are and wherever the heck it is we're headed."

Sam turned to him and smiled. Genuinely smiled. "Roll up for the mystery tour, Benson," she said, and she took his hand in hers.

Just then, the kid in front of them spun around and blurted, "I like _The Wizard of Oz_. I like the Tin Man."

"Congratulations," Sam said, and motioned for the kid to turn around. "Funny, that's how I always sorta pictured you when you were little."

"Hey," Freddie pointed out the window ahead of them, "Up ahead, isn't that . . . ?"

"The Seattle Super Center, yeah," Sam answered.

"Isn't that where . . . ?"

"Yup," Sam answered.

"But I thought it was sold out for months. How did you . . . ?"

"Mama's got ways, Fredalupe. Mama's got ways."

"So we're going to . . ."

"CFC Smack Down, you've got it. We'll watch some huge dudes punch each other in the face and eat a boatload of nachos."

"That's awesome."

"I know," Sam said happily. "No sappiness required."

"There's nothing wrong with a little sap," Freddie replied, squeezing her hand gently.

The bus rolled to a stop.

"I know that, too. It's just . . . I mean this in the nicest way possible, but if you tell anybody I said this I'll rearrange your bone structure," Sam winked. "It took a really, really long time to admit to myself I even had a heart, let alone that it could be broken, let alone that what it really wanted was you for some reason. Sooo . . . when the chance came up, no sappiness seemed like a good idea."

"There's nothing wrong with that either," Freddie reflected. "So, you ready to do this thang?" he asked as they walked down the bus' aisle toward the exit.

"LET'S GET IT ON!" Sam shouted while strutting down the exit stairs.

_**Disclaimer: **I don't own iCarly, and I don't own the characters. I don't own A Christmas Story, and I don't own the rights to works of the Beatles, either. A friend of mine owns a replica leg lamp, and I have a genuine Daisy Red Ryder BB gun, if that counts for anything. It doesn't have a compass on the side and that thingy that tells time, though.  
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	6. Jackpot!

The Super Center was filling quickly. A full slate of bouts was on the schedule for the night, including a couple of title contests. Sam handed Freddie a ticket from out of her pocket as the pair waded their way through the crowd toward the gate. "Here ya go," she said at the turnstiles. "The seats are kinda nosebleed, but we should be able to see decent enough."

"Seats are seats," Freddie replied. "I'm amazed you got them at all. How'd you do it?"

"Didn't anybody tell you to never look a gift horse in the mouth, Benson?" Sam laughed. She added, as they passed into the concourse, "Let's go rustle up some nachos. I haven't eaten in 54 and a quarter minutes." She didn't have a watch.

Freddie knew better than to get in the way of Sam's appetite, especially when it got specific and attained the ability to accurately quantify time in fractional increments. They veered off toward the nearest food stand.

"I don't believe this," Sam said a few minutes later while peering balefully into their nine dollar nacho platter. "There's barely any cheese sauce on here." Not only had the price for nachos gone up since the last time they were at Seattle Super Center, the portions had also shrunk considerably. Plus, there _did _seem to be less surface area of cheese sauce on these chips than on earlier trips to the arena, Freddie thought.

"I'd estimate the sauce coverage to be about about 23% less than the last time we were here, in proportion to the smaller plate size, of course," Freddie said immediately before realizing how obnoxiously dorky that must have sounded.

He was stunned when Sam responded by tearing her gaze from the plastic dish of corn chip-borne disappointment and regarded his face wistfully. "I really hate it when you do that," she said quietly and with surprising tenderness.

"Say something that nerdy?" Freddie offered sheepishly.

"Say something that nerdy that makes this weird spot in my chest cavity start flappin' and flippin' for some reason. It's really hard stopping it on its own, and it gets really nauseating trying." She grimaced in reflection for a moment, then smiled and placed the pathetic excuse for a nacho plate down on a small table along side them. "Oh well . . . I guess I don't have to self-control myself all the time anymore," and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed him against the concourse wall, and kissed him even more passionately than she did a few nights ago at the lock-in. And with that, another piece of the puzzle that was Sam Puckett's behavior toward him over the years suddenly fell into place in Freddie Benson's mind.

After about a minute, Sam withdrew, grinned, grabbed the nacho plate, and breezily over-enunciated, "Much better . . ." She beckoned back toward the concourse, "Come on. Let's go get this puppy cheesed up." Freddie, who had temporarily lost the ability to communicate multisyllabically along with his meticulously combed hairstyle, said, "Hmerrgh," and followed her.

"Keep your eyes peeled for a locked access doorway to the basement," Sam advised as she prowled along the arena's outer hall. "I think they keep the extra food for the vending stalls down there. There's bound to be some vats of whiz. Maybe a Zamboni if we're lucky, too."

"Uh, huh," blinked Freddie, as the neurons controlling speech slowly resumed firing one by one.

After another minute of searching, they found an access door. Sam pulled a hairpin from her pocket and had it open in seconds. They walked down the stairs to a short hallway with a room on each end. One room held their holy grail of sundry processed foodlike items and extra Cheez Whiz. Sam was the first to notice the three burly men engaged in what appeared to be the tail end of a heated discussion with a CFC fighter in the other room.

"Look," one of them said to the martial artist. "There's a lot of good folks with a lot of money riding on this fight. And it would be in the best interests of the _overwhelming_ majority of those with the overwhelming majority of money riding on it if this fight ended _a certain way_. It'd be in your best interest, too. And your family's. You'll all be set for life if you just do what we say just this one time. If you don't – well, let's just say I'm in no position to make any guarantees about what may or may not happen later."

Unfortunately, Freddie hadn't noticed the opposite room and shouted, "JACKPOT, SAM!" the instant he spotted the food horde. While the burly triumvirate spun around to face Sam and Freddie, the CFC fighter fled up the stairs faster than Sam had ever seen anyone run in her life. "Chiz on a chisel," she muttered under her breath as all the color drained from her face and her heart sank.

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own iCarly, and I don't own the characters. I am quite fond of Cheez Whiz and all its generic brethren, though. Try it spread on toast with some dried basil sprinkled on top sometime. The only ones who'll laugh at that combination are those who've never tried it._


	7. A Metaphorical Hoffa

It only took an instant for Freddie Benson to get thrown across the room and be knocked unconscious by flying backwards into a table full of Fatshake mix boxes. Sam, on the other hand, fought like a demon-possessed badger backed into a corner – until the instant one of the men, by now heavily bruised, pulled out a silencer-equipped pistol and pointed it in the direction of Freddie's slumped form. She stopped resisting immediately at the sight of it.

The three bloodied men quickly bound the couple's hands behind them with ropes, tied their feet together, and fitted their mouths with gags. Sam and a still knocked out Freddie were promptly carried through an exterior access door next to a loading dock out into the night, and they were stuffed into the trunk of a nearby compact car. The trunk door closed, and the engine sputtered to life.

For several minutes, all Freddie could vaguely make out was yellow wispiness in the air enveloping him. Gradually, things came into better focus. He was still wrapped all over in a wispy yellow substance he couldn't quite make out, but it was somehow strangely comforting, and it made a strong contrast with the pain in the back of his head. In front of him was a stage flanked by golden curtains. On the stage, a flange of red skynauts were wailing on Nug-Nug with socks full of butter while repeatedly shouting, "Stupid prequel!" A gigantic inflatable pink dachshund teetered above them like a rejected show prop from _This Is Spinal Tap_. Immediately in front of Freddie was a tripod-mounted camera, as though he was supposed to be filming all of this craziness.

A strong-jowled bear of a man with tightly cropped, slicked-back, graying hair strode out in front of the stage. "Fredward Benson?" his voice boomed as he stuck out a meaty right hand and the stage melted into what appeared to be more wispy yellow hair. "I'm a figment of your diseased imagination resembling Jimmy Hoffa, pleased to meet ya!" he said happily as Freddie shook it.

"Great," Freddie thought disappointedly, "This is how it all ends. I'll finally get a place of my own, frozen in concrete somewhere under the 18-yard box at Qwest Field. Well – bright side – maybe I can use my ghostly powers from now on to make Fredy Montero finish accurately for a change."

"No, my dear boy," the figment of Freddie's imagination laughed. "I'm just an overly convenient stock metaphorical distraction lazily taken much too far. It's time to wake up now; someone who loves you more than all the world is worried sick about you. Don't worry, though, you guys are going to be okay. This is a comedy, after all."

As everything faded to black, Freddie first wondered if his imagination really was diseased. He then wondered how his imagination would have achieved self-awareness of its diseased state in the first place. He then wondered what on Earth the philosophical implications of such a thing might be. He then became dimly aware of a faraway sounding feminine voice frantically whispering, "Freddie! Freddie! Oh, Freddie, please, please, PLEASE wake up! Freddie!" interspersed with quiet sobs.

For an instant he thought it was his mom; nobody else could possibly say his name dripping with that much desperation. But, as the voice came closer and into better focus, he realized it was Sam's voice. It was Sam, of all people, sounding like that. And the voice, now right in his ear, seemed to be getting more frantic. He could also vaguely hear the dim, clanky purr of an old car engine. The voice's owner seemed to be gently shaking him, too.

The next thing Freddie became aware of was the gag in his mouth. So, he was gagged. But Sam was still frantically whispering his name, so it stood to reason she wasn't gagged. "Why am I gagged, and she isn't?" he wondered. He could now feel her hand along his mouth, pulling the gag out. He also became aware of something like rope rubbing against his wrists, preventing himself from moving them anywhere other than their current position pinioned against his back. Yet Sam was using her hand to remove the gag from his face. "Curious," he thought. Wherever they were, it was cramped in here. Sam was right up against him. Everywhere. Well, that's one thing about whatever this predicament was that he wasn't going to complain about. "Hey, my ankles are tied, too," he thought. But almost as soon as he thought that, he also felt hands reach around to untie, first his ankles, then his wrists.

He could feel that Sam's face was wet. Whether it was from tears, blood, or both, he didn't know. "Freddie!" the voice called desperately once more. Freddie opened his eyes and noticed it was still dark. "Where the heck are we, Sam?" he mumbled.

The cries of "Freddie!" abruptly stopped. He heard a quick sniffle, followed by a strangely calm-sounding, "Oh, hey there, Fredward," with the emotions it masked betrayed by a solitary uncontrolled gasp in mid-sentence.

"We got jumped by those guys trying to fix a bout, and they bound and gagged us and stuffed us in the back of a car," Sam continued in a whisper. "I'm not sure where we're going. I got us untied now – do you think you could move quickly if you have to?"

"Uh huh." Freddie answered, feeling reasonably confident that he could do it.

"It's probably gonna come to that," Sam continued. "All newer model cars have trunk latch release mechanisms somewhere on the inside so things like this don't happen, but they put us in some kind of 1980-something shitbox. I've been feeling around for the remnant of a pull cord just in case, but just as I suspected, there doesn't seem to be one. If there was, we could just pop the hatch and escape now."

"How the heck does she know all that?" Freddie wondered to himself, awestruck.

"We could get out of this trunk right now by pushing the back panels of the back seat down from inside," she continued, "but that probably wouldn't be a good idea since the car's moving and they're still riding along up front with us. So," she continued, "our best chance to get out of here is probably to wait 'till we've gotten to wherever they're taking us and jump them the instant they open the trunk, since they'll be expecting us to be tied up. You think you can be ready to do that when the time comes?"

"Yeah." Freddie answered. "One thing – how is it that we're not tied up anymore?"

"Trade secret," Sam responded vaguely.

"Oh."

Shortly thereafter, the car sputtered to a stop, and the engine cut off. They felt doors open and close. "When I yell 'fatcakes,' we go. No mercy. Got it?" Sam whispered.

"Got it."

"Okay. Wait for my signal."

A key clunked into the lock, and the tumblers turned.

The trunk hatch swung open, revealing some sort of empty warehouse and a small-statured but impeccably suave man in a tuxedo standing over them. Sam was frozen in place. There was no signal from her.

While the look on the man's face was immediately one of shock, he kept his cool. Shock immediately turned to a look of recognition, yet he kept his cool. Sam remained frozen. Still no signal. Recognition immediately turned to a look of deeper shock, yet the man still kept his cool, and Sam still remained frozen in place, sans signal.

"Sammie? How'd you get in here, kid?" the man asked kindly as his face softened.

_**Disclaimer: **I don't own iCarly, and I don't own the characters. I don't know where Jimmy Hoffa's final resting place is, either. I was once at the old Giants Stadium, but I think Mythbusters finally proved he couldn't have been stashed there shortly before it was torn down. I'm also not a Seattle Sounders supporter, so you can just keep on muffing those shots the way you do oh-so-well, Montero. Now if only we can figure out how to stop Carlos Ruiz from doing the same thing for the Union, we'll be golden . . ._


	8. Part of the Family

"Uncle Carmine?" The sense of relief on Sam's tear and blood streaked face was palpable, Freddie noticed.

"Hold on one second; you'll be out of here soon," Carmine said to them.

Carmine slowly turned from the trunk and, with his hands clasped behind his back, began calmly walking toward Sam and Freddie's three surprisingly heavily bruised, swollen, and bloodied captors.

"Gentlemen," he said in a slightly raspy voice with what sounded like a surprising degree of kindness. "We are confronted here with something I like to refer to as a 'teachable moment.'

"As I'm sure you all know, we have two rules in our noble line of work," he continued, holding up two fingers on his right hand. Now he held up just his index finger. "One. Keep your mouth shut." He now extended his middle finger as well. "Two. Don't mess with kids." Carmine crossed his arms. "Now, even at my old age, two simple rules don't seem like they would be particularly difficult to remember." He began to pace slowly in front of the men with his hands clasped together. "So now you may begin to comprehend the source of my profound befuddlement as to why you've brought me a car with two teenagers locked in the trunk.

"It doesn't matter what they may or may not have seen you doing; they're kids, not cops. Nobody's gonna believe whatever cockamamie tale they might go blabbing anyway, not that they would necessarily go doing that in the first place," he said with a quick glance back at the trunk.

"Man, he's good," Freddie mumbled with a strange tinge of admiration, and Sam quickly elbowed him in the side.

"Because I'm a forgiving person," Carmine continued calmly while looking each of the men directly in their faces, one by one, "I'm letting this slide just this one time. To err is human, after all, and so is royally screwing up when you're still new to any kind of job. Just make sure you reflect on this when you're home tonight with your families, because after tonight, _you_, kind sirs, won't be considered new to this job anymore. Now go home."

And with that, the three thugs quickly slunk away.

Carmine walked back to the car's trunk. "Where do they keep finding these chuckleheads?" he wondered aloud.

Freddie felt it best to say something at this moment. "I can't thank you enough, sir. Believe me when I say we didn't mean any harm, and –"

"Hey, don't worry about it," Carmine cut him off while fishing a handkerchief from his right coat pocket and handing it to Sam, who began wiping off her face.

"I'll need to get you guys cleaned up better than this," he continued while pulling a pen-sized LED flashlight from his left coat pocket. "That's a bad bump you have on top of your head there; skin doesn't appear to be broken, though," he said to Freddie and immediately began shining the light directly into the boy's eyes.

Freddie squinted, and Carmine continued, "Sorry about this, but I'm checking your pupils to make sure they're dilating properly. If they're not," he said as he switched the light from Freddie's left eye to his right, "it's a big warning sign for a concussion. You don't mess with head injuries." Carmine turned off the light. "Well, they're constricting the way they should; that's good. Sammie, did he black out at all?"

"Yeah, for a while," Sam answered.

"Okay, then you're definitely not in the clear yet," Carmine said to Freddie. "You need to keep a close eye on him tonight and tomorrow morning, Sammie. If he pukes, or if he suddenly gets groggy or sleepy, or if he has any trouble waking up in the morning, I want you to call this guy immediately," and Carmine pulled a business card out of his left coat pocket hand handed it to Sam. The card read:

**Dr. Benjamin Way Croaker, M.D., J.D., D.D.**

555-555-4662

P.O. Box 5555

Seattle, WA 98111

"You won't have to pay anything, you won't have to worry about insurance being contacted, you won't have to fill out any paperwork, and you won't have to answer anything," Carmine continued. "He's a good man, and thorough. Oh, by the way, Sammie, I really liked how you got yourself and Freddie untied in that trunk. And did you put that hurting on those morons?"

Sam nodded with what appeared to be a touch of poorly veiled sadness. "That's my girl!" Carmine said proudly, and he patted Sam on the head as she sheepishly turned her gaze downward.

"Um, how did you know my name, sir?" Freddie asked.

"I've been watching you guys on iCarly for years – amazing work, by the way; I'm a big fan – plus Sammie here's _never_ been able to shut up about you ever since you guys first met in elementary school. It's almost like you're part of the family or something, even though I'd never actually met you before."

Out of the corner of his eye, Freddie could have sworn he just saw Sam in mid face palm.

He helped Sam and Freddie climb out of the trunk. "Anyway, I'm Sammie's uncle, Carmine. Just call me 'Uncle Carmine' if you want. Sorry I hadn't gotten around to properly introducing myself. My manners flew out the window when I saw you two were roughed up. Anyway, if you're wondering about what the heck it is I do, let's just say that I proactively facilitate systems management on behalf of multiple client account synergies.

"So what are you crazy kids up to tonight?" Carmine asked.

"We were at the Super Center and, uh, well, um, we . . . _were_ . . . uh, sorta on a, um, a date . . . ish . . . type . . . thingy . . ." Sam said while trailing off, and it occurred to Freddie that he'd never seen her blush before, let alone blush like _that_.

Carmine wagged a finger at Sam while grinning ear to ear. "Hah! About time, Sammie! Did I not tease you about this years ago and say it was just a matter of time?" he said triumphantly.

"Yes," mumbled Sam dejectedly while staring at her fidgeting foot on the floor.

"Now that I've had my crowning moment of gloat," Carmine said, "let me get you guys somewhere you can get cleaned up better than this. This warehouse is rather lacking in adequate facilities."

The three piled into the tan, boxy car, with Carmine driving and Sam and Freddie in the back seat. The car slowly choked to life again, and as they left the rundown, wharf-front warehouse, a seat-belted Freddie Benson looked out with wonder at the waterfront docks around him. Foregoing the seatbelt as she pensively stared at the back of the driver's seat with an expressionless look in her eyes, Sam Puckett sat leaning toward the window with one elbow perched on the door armrest and her forehead resting in her hand. Occasionally her jaw would move slightly as though she was saying something to herself.

**_Disclaimer: _**_I don't own iCarly, and I don't own the characters. In this installment of "spot the obscure pop culture reference," see if you can find the line from The Big Lebowski, which I don't own, either._


	9. Lost Horizon

As the car weaved its way through a succession of dingy alleyways behind the port complex, Freddie was surprised to find a familiar sight: a "Come On Inn" sign beckoned in the night with a rusty marquee below that read:

SAILORS & TRUCKERS WELCOME

COLOR TV

HOURLY RATES

"I had no idea 'Come On Inn' was a national chain," Freddie remarked to no one in particular.

"Oh, they're global," Uncle Carmine replied cheerily from the driver's seat. "Anywhere in the world you'd possibly want to be – here in Seattle at the wharf; Genoa; Tangier; Liverpool; Camden, New Jersey; Port Moresby; Mombasa; Piraeus; the Sydney Tar Ponds; there's bound to be a Come On Inn."

Sam's face was thoroughly buried in her hands.

"We're almost there," Carmine said as the car pulled into a dilapidated square a few blocks behind the wharf illuminated by the yellow glow of a solitary streetlamp. The Come On Inn, which resembled a massive concrete bunker upon closer view, covered one side of the square. Opposite the hotel stood two buildings, one occupied by a seedy-looking bar named "Shanghai-La," and the other was lit up by a sickly neon sign in its front window that flickered the words, "Annie's Tattoos." It was impossible to see beyond the window due to several garbage bags of various colors duct-taped together and used as a curtain behind the sign.

The trio parked, exited the car and entered the tattoo parlor. "Sister Ray" by the Velvet Underground sneered and fuzzed through the air from some unseen stereo.

Sam's cousin Annie was just finishing up with a customer, a sailor with whom she was speaking in fluent Portuguese. After he paid and inspected under the bandage on his arm, Annie asked, "What brings you guys here?"

"The kids ran into a little trouble tonight," Carmine said, "and we need to get them cleaned up a bit."

As soon as she noticed Freddie, Annie ran in his direction and came to a stop before him like the moth that hovered around the light bulb dangling on a chain above them. "Wow, Freddie Benson," she said, clearly impressed with something, although Freddie couldn't tell what that might be.

"I remember when you were just a little pipsqueak, and now . . . WOW . . ." she said, inspecting his arms. "What a canvas . . ." Annie Puckett continued, half to herself. "Just let me know if you ever want me to do any work on those gorgeous arms of yours." She ravenously looked him over from head to toe. "Or anywhere else, for that matter. _Anywhere at all_," she said, leaning in for emphasis.

"Okay, bye, Annie!" Sam said abruptly, grabbing Freddie by the collar of his shirt and pulling him toward the back of the shop. "Has the water been turned back on in the basement?"

"Uh, sure, extra paint's in the cabinet." Annie said, staring absent-mindedly in the direction of Freddie's backside.

As Sam, Freddie, and Carmine made their way down the open stairs to the stone-carved basement, Freddie expressed his surprise at how much larger it was than upstairs.

"Yeah," Carmine responded. "My brother Buzz runs the Shanghai-La next door, and the two places are connected through the basement. Plus there are some tunnels that go by here and run the whole way out to the docks. Up until about a hundred years ago there used to be a bar here where the crimps would drug merchant sailors on shore leave, haul them down to ships bound for the Far East, and impress them into service onboard. That's how Buzz came up with the name for the bar – sort of a homage to the good old days."

"Creative," Freddie remarked as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Whatever. Bathrooms are down here," Sam said curtly.

Concern crossed Freddie's face. "What's gotten into you all of a sudden?"

"Nothing," she said with deliberate airiness. "Let's go get cleaned up." Sam was doing that eyebrow thing again, Freddie noticed.

"Carmine? Sammie? Is that you?" an old woman's voice called from around a hidden corner, apparently at the entryway of one of the tunnels.

"Hi, J'Mam-Maw," Sam said, somehow at once cheerily and wearily.

Sam's bespectacled grandmother emerged from the shadows. Her grayish-white Q-tip styled hair was framed by a clear green visor shade, and she was carrying a huge ledger full of old-fashioned accounting paper and a slide rule. "Come here and give Mama a hug," she said merrily, setting her things down on a shelf.

"What's new?" Carmine asked as they embraced.

"Oh, just trying to figure out where to set the spread for the Seahawks' preseason opener. It's always so much harder to tell when just the backups and trialists are playing. The regular formulas don't work," J'Mam-Maw replied. Her office, tucked in a tunnel's entrance, was lit by several old-fashioned green-shaded bankers' lamps and the surface of her desk was filled with open ledgers, newspaper sports sections, and antique calculating devices. Bookshelves stuffed with more ledgers, news clippings, and sports memorabilia lined the tunnel and stretched into the darkness beyond.

"I never knew your grandma was a bookie," Freddie wondered aloud to Sam, awestruck. "Look at all this ledger paper and these slide rules," he continued rapturously, taking in the office in all its archaic glory. "I had no idea they still made this stuff; this is the coolest thing I've ever seen. Oh my God, is that a Burroughs Adding Machine?"

Sam did that eyebrow thing again and inhaled deeply, just before her grandmother hugged her.

"And Freddie Benson!" J-Mam-Maw squealed delightedly. "I know Pam said you sure filled out nicely, but, wow! You've turned into a right sexy wee bastard; do you know that?" she said as she hugged him tightly. Maybe a little too tightly.

"Umm, thanks?" Freddie stammered bewilderedly.

"She's right, you know," Carmine chimed in.

"We just need to use the bathrooms to wash up a bit, and we'll get out of your hair so you can get back to your number crunchin'," Sam said quickly.

Freddie took the bathroom labeled "Buccaneers," while Sam occupied the one labeled "Wenches."

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own iCarly, and I don't own the characters. I also don't own the rights to So I Married an Axe Murderer, from which I shamelessly ripped off a line (guess where). I also want to make it **abundantly** clear that I mean no slight to the residents of any of the places mentioned by Uncle Carmine at the beginning of this chapter – I'm making fun of the stereotypes of port cities in general, not the places themselves. I've actually been to Camden, NJ, Sydney, NS (yes, I've seen the tar ponds, too), and Piraeus, and I'm quite fond of all three._


	10. Horribly Flawed

The car ride back to Bushwell Plaza had been remarkably quiet and awkward. Sam's omnipresent poker face of yore had returned with a vengeance, and she would only respond to Freddie's attempts to make conversation in cryptic one or two word answers.

After bidding goodnight to Carmine Puckett and walking toward Bushwell's lobby, Sam turned to Freddie and woodenly uttered, "I need to follow you up and keep an eye on you 'til morning to make sure you don't have a concussion." It was the most she had spoken since they were in the basement of her cousin's tattoo parlor.

"Okay, Sam. What the heck is going on?" Freddie demanded as he pushed the main elevator button for the eighth floor.

"Look, I . . . just . . . This was a disaster, and I'm . . . I'm . . ." She finally blurted it out, "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Sam, you don't have to be sorry," Freddie said. "So it didn't go the way you planned and the night got scary for a while. It's not like you had any control over it. Besides, as far as disasters go, a lot of it was sorta fun."

Sam paused and took a deep breath. "Look, you don't – Okay." She exhaled deeply. "Do you know how those thugs got so beat up?"

"I thought you did that." Freddie replied as the elevator doors opened and they stepped into the hallway.

"Yeah, but do you know why they got that way and we still got tied up anyway?" Sam asked as they came to a stop in front of apartment 8-D's front door.

"I'm not following," Freddie said.

"'Course not; you were knocked out," Sam realized as the sound of a jackhammer reached their ears from across the hall. "Look. I was on the verge of winning that fight and getting us outta that basement in the arena — 'till . . ." Freddie continued looking at her face in amazement as Sam took another deep breath. "One of them pulled out a gun," she added quietly, "and he pointed it at you.

"Don't you get it?" Sam demanded after Freddie didn't chime in. "I stopped fighting and let us get tied up and stuffed in that car as soon as I saw it! You could've been dead!"

She took another deep breath and slowly sank down to a seated position along the hallway wall. Her head bobbed between her forearms, which she rested on her knees. "I take you out on one stupid date," she said quietly, "and I almost get you killed."

"You did _not _almost get me killed," Freddie told her while placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Yes I did!" she shouted, forcefully shoving his hand aside and springing to her feet while the jackhammer revved again. "This was all my fault! It was dangerous, and I was . . . irresponsible . . . taking you down there . . . in the first place," Sam stammered as she tried to hold herself together for what she was sure she had to say.

"Look," she continued. "This was a mistake – tonight . . . everything." She took another deep breath, and quietly said, "Truth is, you're an awesome, amazing guy. I'm proud to call you my friend." She looked crestfallen as she continued, "and I wish we could be more. It took me a long time to be able to see that . . . and it took me a longer time to be able to say that." She tried to avert her eyes from Freddie's gaze.

As he looked into Sam's face, it appeared to Freddie that her eyes somehow displayed a reflection of her heart shattering. Sam continued achingly, "You deserve the best. And I know now that's not me."

Tears began to roll down Sam's cheeks. She no longer cared about that. "When I think about what happened to you tonight . . . what almost happened to you tonight . . . nobody deserves that. It just shows I'm not good en–, I'm just not good for you . . . I'm too dangerous; half my family's dangerous . . . Me getting close just isn't good for you, okay?

"So – let's . . . let's just – just . . . go back to being co-workers, okay? Don't worry about me . . . You know me – I'm tough and I'll get over this no problem; you know that . . . You know that, right? . . . Right?"

The jackhammer revved again, and for the first time in his life, Freddie Benson was sure he knew exactly what to say to Sam Puckett. "Bullcrap."

"What?" Sam asked in confusion.

"Bullcrap." Freddie repeated calmly. "I call bullcrap. I do know you, Sam, and here's what else I know from tonight: I know somebody who would fight like a lion to get me out of a scrape that _I'd_ stupidly gotten _us_ into by shouting, and then stop immediately when the situation changed to keep me from getting hurt more. I know somebody who's incredible in a crisis. I know somebody who would never give up to protect someone close to her. And I know somebody who was sobbing – SOBBING – when she thought no one was listening and that I'd come to serious harm, but who still had the presence of mind to get us untied in that trunk!"

With tears still rolling, Sam gaped open-mouthed at Freddie. "That's right, Sam. I could hear you just before I came to. And here's what I see in front of me right now: the most loyal and loving girl I've _ever_ had the privilege of knowing, someone who's even willing to throw away something she's wanted with somebody, deep down, for who knows how long, if she thinks it'll somehow protect that person.

"Truth is, you're an awesome and amazing girl. I'm proud to call _you_ my friend and _I_ wish we could be more. It took me way too long a time to be able to see that, and it took me even longer to be able to say that. _You _deserve the best, and there's nothing I wish for more than for you to see it in yourself, too. If there's anybody here who's not worthy of anybody else, it's a clueless dork like _me_ not being worthy of _you_!"

Sam slowly slid back down the wall to a seated position on the floor. After a moment, she smiled weakly, ran her hand through her hair, and softly joked, "So . . . now we're both horribly inadequate for each other?"

"So we're both hopelessly flawed," Freddie smiled gently as he slid down beside her. "Big whup. So's everybody. That's no reason to just give up."

The jackhammer revved again. "And besides, if you want to talk about being dangerous," Freddie grinned while waving his hand at the door across the hall, "right now my next door neighbor's _still_ trying to mix napalm with a jackhammer in a 55 gallon drum, yet here we sit."

"So what are you sayin', Benson?" Sam asked with a smile while placing a hand on his knee.

"I'm _sayin'_ would you like to go out with me sometime? That is, if you'd have me," Freddie said.

"Fredward Benson, are you asking me out on a _date_?" Sam asked with mock incredulity.

"Why, yes, Samantha Puckett, yes I am," Freddie answered while taking her hand in his.

"You sure it ain't just the concussion talking?" she asked with a grin.

Freddie nodded in the affirmative.

"Then I accept your kind offer, but on one condition," Sam continued sternly.

"What's that?"

"Please keep it lame. I need a _big_ shot o' lame after tonight."

"Then I'll take you on a grand tour of Seattle's comic book shops and Radio Shacks."

"Not that lame."

"Noted."

Sam and Freddie helped each other to their feet, and the demon and the dork shared a kiss that would have lasted indefinitely had it not been for 8-D's front door swinging open and Mrs. Benson stepping into the hallway.

_**Disclaimer: **I don't own iCarly and I don't own the characters. Just one more chapter to go, folks._


	11. Totally Sideways Again

For an instant, Mrs. Benson was simply too stunned by the sight of her Freddie entwined with his freakish blonde tormentor to react, and the pair was blissfully ignorant of her presence at first.

Once the initial shock wore off, however, Mrs. Benson screamed, "WHAT THE —" followed by the longest and loudest stream of profanity ever unleashed upon the ears of any of Bushwell Plaza's residents. Or at least it would have been had the jackhammer in 8-C not roared to life again at the same instant.

The couple tore apart as Freddie incoherently shouted in fear while Sam stood her ground with a profoundly amused look on her face. The instant Mrs. Benson paused to catch her breath, Sam stepped right up to her and flashed a thumbs-up gesture of approval while grinning admiringly, "That's some quality cussin', Mrs. B! Didn't know you had it in ya!"

Mrs. Benson's face remained a portrait of horror mingled with confusion.

"I understand your surprise," Sam continued amusedly. "I don't totally get it myself, either, but your widdle Fweddie really gets me goin_'_. Makes my _motor purr_," she said, in a voice as closely approximating coquetteish as Sam Puckett was capable of mustering. "Guess what? The mere thought of _your_ incredible son does _things_ to me." Sam pulled in closer to Mrs. Benson's ear. "You know, _things_," she continued wickedly, shifting to a loud whisper, "_in places_!"

It was obvious Mrs. Benson's brain had completely seized up by this point as she stood immobile and speechless.

"Got any food? I haven't eaten in hours," Sam asked impassively as she calmly walked around Mrs. Benson, through the doorway and into 8-D.

Freddie and his mother exchanged looks of mutual dumbfounded confusion.

"Uh, Sam, where you going?" Freddie called after Sam and followed her inside. Mrs. Benson remained frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at nowhere in particular.

"What was _that_?" Freddie asked once he was in the apartment and gestured back to the hallway.

"A gentlewoman never speaks directly of items illegal for purchase in Alabama, Fredward . . . Besides, I figured if I came right at her with guns blazin' there'd be less chance of getting wailed on with your antibacterial underpants," Sam replied while nonchalantly sauntering to the kitchen, "'cause I ain't goin' anywhere tonight; I still gotta make sure your head's okay . . . Don't you have anything _good_ in here?" she continued while tearing through the pantry.

"You know you don't have to do that if you don't really want to," Freddie told Sam as she disgustedly tossed a bag of beet chips to the floor. "I'm sure my mom'll be worried and overprotective enough to begin with," he continued, feeling the bump on his head. "Plus, I'm sure she'll try to make you feel as awkward as possible if you try to stay here."

"Three things," Sam replied, walking toward him. "One. I _want_ to be here," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Two. I still feel at least sorta responsible for this." She patted his head gently. "Three. When my uncle tells you to do something, believe me when I say it's a good idea to do it. Besides, didn't you see me out there?" She pointed to the doorway. "I can make your mom squirm in ways you, as a guy, can't fathom. If this turns into a contest to see who can make who feel the most uncomfortable, Mama wins in no time." Sam stuck her hands into the back pockets of Freddie's jeans. "Hands down.

"Oh, hey there again, Mrs. Benson!" Sam called pleasantly as Freddie's mom finally staggered in through the doorway, her mouth slightly ajar and her eyes fixed in a thousand-yard stare.

Without turning her head, closing her mouth, or moving her eyes, Mrs. Benson slowly sat herself down on the living room sofa. "I . . . I . . ." she stammered.

Sam crashed onto the sofa beside her and patted her knee with a smile. "Believe me Mrs. Benson, I know exactly how you feel right now. We've both been just as shocked by this over the last few days as you are.

"Sooooo," Sam continued, "we were out on our first date tonight," she flashed Mrs. Benson a quick grin, "and Freddie got a bit of a bump on his head, so I'm spendin' the night here 'till I'm sure he'll be okay, 'kay?"

That made Mrs. Benson snap out of her nightmarish reverie. "What? Oh no, young, um, lady; I'm sure you don't know the first thing about dealing with head injuries." Mrs. Benson said with a nervous laugh. She got up and made her way to her wheeled first aid cart in the corner of the room. "I bet you didn't even –"

"Shine a light in his eyes to make sure his pupils dilated and contracted properly? Done," Sam interrupted.

That statement may have shocked Marissa Benson more than anything Sam previously said. Regaining her composure once more, Mrs. Benson continued, "but I'm sure you haven't been –"

"Continuously checking to make sure he isn't feeling nauseous or acting groggy?" Sam interrupted once again. "Done and ongoing."

Marissa Benson began to wonder if that strange feeling in the pit of her stomach wasn't actually a growing twinge of admiration for and amazement at the yellow-headed freak. "Ahheh," she chuckled nervously, "but surely you haven't expected to –"

"Monitor how he falls asleep tonight and how he wakes up tomorrow morning, because if he falls asleep too easily or wakes up too slowly it means he probably has a concussion?" Sam interrupted once more. "Checkaroo."

"But I am certain you don't –"

"I've also got the phone number of a doctor on standby if there's any problem."

Mrs. Benson needed to sit down again.

"So, got any decent food around here?" Sam inquired.

"There's leftover boiled tofu in the refrigerator," Mrs. Benson answered defeatedly.

"That'll work," Sam replied as she got up, unzipped a pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out a bottle of Sriracha sauce while walking to the fridge. She emptied the tofu in a large pile onto a gigantic serving plate, grabbed a few forks, went back to the sofa and plopped down beside Mrs. Benson.

"Wad o' soy curd?" Sam offered, holding the plate under Mrs. Benson's face.

"Sure," Mrs. Benson replied weakly and picked up a fork with a cube on its tip.

"Cock sauce?" Sam offered, dangling the Vietnamese-labeled and rooster-bedecked bottle before Freddie's mom's nose.

"What _is _that?" she grimaced disgustedly.

"Squeezable enlightenment. Here, have some," and Sam squirted a large red glob onto Mrs. Benson's tofu the instant she was putting it into her mouth.

"Don't worry," Sam continued. "What you're experiencing right now is just fear leaving the body. You'll be better for it once you come out the other side." Sam proceeded to empty the bottle onto the rest of the tofu and begin scarfing down the plate's contents.

"Oops, where _are_ my my manners?" Sam uttered with a mouth full of ruddy spiced tofu a minute later after the huge plate was half-devoured. She belched loudly and called across the room, "Ya want some o' this cocky tofu, Fredison?"

"Sure, a little. 'Fu me," Freddie replied. She tossed him a fork, and the first meal the Bensons had with Sam since their Thanksgiving fiasco began in earnest.

"Once you get past the burn, whatever this is is surprisingly addictive," Mrs. Benson said a few minutes later, helping herself to more sauce-drenched tofu.

By now it was getting late, and all three were yawning. Freddie went back to his room to change into a fresh pair of Galaxy Wars pajamas, and Sam unsuccessfully stifled a loud chortle when he emerged.

"Well, I guess it's time for bed," Sam yawned as she somehow picked up a recliner, carried it back to Freddie's room, and placed it alongside his bed.

"OH, NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, no, no, no, no, no!" Mrs. Benson called, running after her. "Just what do you think you're doing, missy? There's no way I'm letting you and your . . . hormones spend the night alone with my Freddie in his room!"

Sam, to Mrs. Benson's surprise, surveyed Freddie's room and said, "Well, there's plenty of room in here for another chair for you." Sam must have noticed the shock on her face, Mrs. Benson thought, because the next thing she said was, "Look, I'm serious about keepin' an eye on him tonight. So are you. Neither of us wanna see him get hurt, so why can't we both do it? It'll be a party or something." Sam looked around the room again and laughed. "Something about Post-It Notes stuck to Post-It Notes stuck to a message board just cracks me up!"

Marissa Benson suddenly found herself beginning to reevaluate everything she thought she knew about Sam Puckett.

After the two of them carefully watched Freddie Benson drift off to sleep without incident, Sam pulled a deck of cards out of her cargo pants. "Know howta play gin?" she asked offhandedly. It dawned on Mrs. Benson that in her own bizarre, abrasive manner, Sam had been going out of her way to be friendly to her tonight. She certainly wouldn't have felt like she needed to continue doing so once Freddie was asleep, yet here she was, offering to stay up with her while playing cards.

Mrs. Benson smiled. "Let's go," she said.

"I have to warn you," Sam said with a look of incredible intensity, "Mama plays to win."

"Understood." Marissa Benson paused. "So does this one."

"I know," Sam grinned.

Marissa Benson studied her carefully as Sam shuffled the cards with a degree of dexterity to which professional dealers in Las Vegas aspire. "I don't know why I never noticed it before," Mrs. Benson murmured.

"Noticed what?" Sam looked up from the cards.

"How protective and caring you are. Especially with Freddie. And how much that's always been the case in your own . . . unorthodox way, too."

"Well, somebody's gotta keep an eye out for the goob."

"I do that too, you know," Mrs. Benson said sternly. "And I'll always keep an eye out to make sure nobody hurts him."

"Well, yeah," Sam said, "you saw him first."

Mrs. Benson looked at Sam with a sense of new-found wonder. "I'm sorry I started a petition drive to banish you from Seattle last year."

"I'm sorry I emptied out your toothpaste tube and refilled it with hemorrhoid cream last year."

"That was you?"

"Yeah," Sam grinned. "Told ya Mama plays to win. Speaking of . . . gin!"

To say Marissa Benson's universe had suddenly gone totally sideways would be something of an understatement.

**_Disclaimer: _**_And that, good people, is how the story ends. __I don't own iCarly, and I don't own the characters. I do actually enjoy beet chips, though, and they pair surprisingly well with Sriracha._


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